The picture of his family used to perch atop the nightstand of Oliver Gutierrez’s quarters. He sat it down nearly over the edge, just enough that it could support itself. However, the undulating current beneath him shattered the glass.

This was Oliver’s first moments at sea, for he underestimated the strength of the mysterious waves that spread over the horizon. Nauts is what he was told the world measures the ocean’s expanse in. An odd word, he thought. It reminded him of the word “knot” almost immediately. Knot. Like the one that the police saw him dangling from the day his sister died.

Oliver struggled to remove the picture from the floor, now bejeweled with the reflection of broken glass. “Damnit!” he yelled, pricking his palm with a shard. Blood, slowly trickling from his right hand. The warm liquid was soothing, because it reminded him of where he should be: deep in the depths of El Infierno, as his family referred to it as.

That was Oliver’s only incentive to bring the wretched photo in the first place, so that he may lay in peaceful slumber with his sister, Karina, in El Infierno. It was where he thought he belonged now, and he reminds himself everyday. “Damn that man,” he would yell, cursing Mr. Murray’s benevolence to both his family and him.

Mr. Murray had been an acquaintance of the Gutierrez household since before Oliver could even utter actual words. Oliver never understood how someone of such aristocracy could be so generous to impoverished blood, funding Oliver’s education at the most esteemed of academies.

Even now, Mr. Murray’s altruism is perplexing, allowing a convict—or former convict—to have his bones crisped by the morning sun once again, and sending him to a remote island to forget about the world’s judgement. There were more people now, people to condemn him once again. Less for sure than returning to Barcelona, but so much that he must use his door as a barrier. They will know that he was a convict. They will know.

It looked to Oliver that his barrier would have to break away, because the slow drip of blood had become a waterfall. He reached his hand towards the door, reluctantly and slowly. The infirmary was not too far from his room, so he turned the handle and bolted towards it, leaving blood stains all over the carpet behind him.

Author guidance

A billionaire has invited a number of guests over to his private Mediterranean island for the weekend. Isola di Fiori Mortali. Where he plans to conduct the last of his business affairs, and decide among his guests and villa staff how to divide his estate before he dies. But someone can't wait for him to...

Select a previous page...

Note: Keep in mind that the From: field of the email message sent by this form will contain your email address,
and will therefore be available to the recipient. If you're not comfortable with this, please
close this window.